WATCH YOUR MONEY GROW – INVESTMENTS, BANKING AND 5 MONTHS AT HOME (SERIES I – OUTDOORS, PART 1)
8:46 PM 8/5/06
It gives me no pleasure to be writing this today - I've left the ending scenes of LOR 3 and a whole range of Saturday matinee to force my eyes onto a computer screen. Maybe it was my mother's persistent nagging that drove me to my room.
Ever since I told her that I was going to end up being a writer sooner or later, she's been trying to squash my literary dreams. I tried to shut her up with a compilation of my notes. She dismissed them as commonplace and uninteresting, insignificant takes on everyday life that didn't amount to much. I tell her that my daily life is more sensational than the weekly media throw-up.
I crash-landed at home some bleary day in March. As the self-enforced vacation now draws to a end, I must look back at this opportunity to connect with my cynically aesthetic side - those long hours spend loitering in the wet rain, the frequent indulgence to my creative, arty, crafty side, the constant attempts tot understand human nature.
Though my now-relieved parents will insist that I'm the greatest couch potato ever born, I do find time to complete the occasional chores they throw at me – I even find time to indulge my inexplicable, unpredictable, apparently unrewarding cravings – from teaching my maid’s children to bowling to a wall for hours to scribbling over unsuspecting sheets of naked paper. Here’s a thought….
My father’s been trying to force monetary terms and processes into my mind for a long time now. Initially, I was game for it – money’s a sufficient lure. I even ‘worked’ with my dad’s investment agent for a couple of days.
I could not, however, bring myself to return on the 3rd day. Maybe because the work was too easy – too boring – too much of Maths. Maybe because the female colleague that I’d been promised wasn’t too – well – you know – I mean – all right, she was damn ugly.
My ‘employer’ is a good man – he better be – for he’s an agent, a Dalal, who’s paid for handling other people’s money. He was willing to hire me – maybe too willing (he even offered me an a.c. cabin) – for his business requires men of trust and he saw no risk in recruiting a well-off 20 year old – aimless, rich and the son of a thrifty client. ‘Rakh lo!’ To be honest, I was tempted into the money business – all you have to do is keep track of the markets, keep a good relationship with your innocent, trusting clients who have neither the time nor the inclination to keep track of their money. It’s quite interesting, actually and above all, rewarding!
Did I just say ‘interesting’? I remember calling it boring some time back – well, it’s boring if you have to do it day after day – the same stocks and shares ‘rising’ and ‘falling’ – the only difference being the colour and direction of the arrows accompanying them. You can also invest – banks, Post-offices, Mutual funds, PFs, NSCs – lots of tax saving options and stuff – I don’t want to discuss them here – would be an unfair tribute to my former employer – who divides his day between supervising a lazy staff and visiting clients to collect orders, passbooks, signed forms, cheques, cash and stuff (anyway, I’ve been avoiding him ever since I ran out on a promising career in ‘telling others how to multiply their money’ – he appeared disappointed at my immature decision to rather pursue a B.E. – Dhut! Dhut!)
My father wasn’t too disappointed, though – he made sure I kept visiting banks.
There are 2 kinds of banks – big and small. Big = huge buildings, excess of furniture and employees, terms like ‘can I help you’, high tech machinery, central air-conditioning and space – lots of space. Nothing for me there – bast**ds charge you 85 Rs. for an account statement!
The smaller branches of some Govt. banks – now you have something there!
Case study --- the colour of money – tinged with brown.
Location - Bank of India, Ulyan branch.
Observation period – actually, I’ve been going there for years but it’s only for the 5-6 hours I’ve spent there this week that I’ve appreciated its presence in my trivial existence.
No army of smartly dressed security guards to open the door for you – the lone guard stands calmly in a corner, ready to answer any queries you have – he looks kindly at you, not suspecting the poor earthly souls who wander in.
To your – sorry, my left is the manager’s cabin where – um – where is he? Maybe that kind-looking fellow at the back – appears to be busy with a few prospective account holders and a heap of documents that require his signature. I don’t know him.
I doubt if anyone knows me here – and I’ve spent endless hours here – enjoyed most of it too.
I proceed to the 2 counters at the back of the room, further to the right – I make my familiar way past the crowd at the withdrawal counter with some difficulty. Everyone’s too busy to pay me any attention – something I don’t particularly enjoy - they are busy engaging the bank officer. I take my position in the small queue at the DEPOSIT counter. The Bengali officer behind the counter acknowledges my entry with a cool ‘hello’.
He doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry – something I really don’t mind. As he proceeds to examine the currency in his receptive hands, I begin the day’s work…
People around me curse the officer under their breaths as I oblige any harrowed parents who turn up to deposit school fees – my friend (the Bengali?) takes his time to deposit the few hundred that they have to grudgingly offer.
It’s a Saturday – half a workday = double the impatience, double the frustration – now, you don’t want to mess with a Govt. officer! Yet, you also can’t stand in a queue (well, it’s supposed to be that) all day. Especially when the officer takes a few seconds to sip a cup of tea or stretch his limbs.
Meanwhile (as the officer enters into a quick chito-chat with the revered local priest – something about dates and ladoos, offerings and the decline in our religiousness – the cornered man of faith chooses to be diplomatic – “Ishwar sabka bhala kare…”. I asked him if he could tell his boss to give my application a push.) I take a moment to analyse the turbulent crowd.
It’s as varied and diverse as a Mumbai local train rush – only if it could be that united. I see teenagers, nervously clutching the forms in their hands and nearly crushing the bundled noted in their pockets. I try to offer them my help, as kind and as offhand as applicable.
There are older lads, apparently professionals – cheerful, knowledgeable and looking to engage the willing bankizen into conversation - all the time making their adept, shrewd way up the queue. They are the banker’s familiar delight – warm greetings are exchanged along with Mandi rates and the banker’s woes.
There are no girls here – no babes, no behenjis – nothing – justifying the lack of mathematics in their heads. The already frustrated opposite sex is left craving for those rare figures that make sense everywhere.
There are middle-aged women, though – largely unsure of their purpose here – probably preoccupied with preparations for arguments with their lazy husbands back home – who’ve shamelessly cited work as an excuse to put their tender halves to this madness. Not to mention missing re-runs of their favourite shows (it’s a Saturday, remember?)! All that when they can’t differentiate between a cheque-deposit form and a withdrawal slip (some of them can’t even sign with a steady hand!)!
There are also businessmen with their Current Accounts, eager to get back to their shops and with little time to consider their fellow bankizens – I ignore them.
As people around me begin to wriggle through with opportunistic dashes, indifferent shrugs and wails of desperate excuses, I allow myself to be pushed by some, convinced by some – some I pity, much to the resentment of the others behind me – and the others I either ignore or brush aside.
Sometimes, I join in the frustrations of the crowd, voicing their opinions; rarely do I let my spirits lose – I don’t take anyone to take me seriously – with my studious look, natural squeak and emotions too preoccupied to be provoked. I can be tough when I want to but I guess I’m too lazy to pick a fight. So I prefer to play dumb – and I’m pretty good at that.
It doesn’t work on my Bengali (sorry I’ve to subject him to that address but I don’t know his name yet) friend, though – for he takes about 15-20 min. to examine my 500s and 1000s. He doesn’t like the 1000s at all – when he’s done examining them through the light of a lamp, he proceeds to subject the Father of the nation to Ultraviolet Radiation! (I bet he has a bite or two on the sly). Only when the notes satisfy the Government’s genuineness specifications, the bank officer’s expectations and my perspiration(s, made unbearable by the fact that I hadn’t had a bath in – let’s just say ‘some time’) – are they cleared for deposit.
I leave Mr. B. with a smile and more notes to scrutinise.
The rest of the bank isn’t much – interesting, i.e. Some 3-4 officers, sharing 2 computers, a printer and staff to pass around. As they continue to offload files, customer complaints and responsibilities onto the nearest reluctant shoulder available, I leave the bank with a heavy sigh – there are still some DDs to make before I leave for Bangalore.
Someone tells me that the bank will now be open from 8 to 8 – before I can digest that, the clock signals noon with joined hands and I hurry back to my comfortable sofa and T.V. set – more on that another time.
Keep Blogging. Keep Loving. Keep Smiling.
- Lohit Gupta.
P.S. – It took me nearly 44.5 hours to transfer this from my head to my diary to my tedious screen to my blog. How long does it take you people?
8:46 PM 8/5/06
It gives me no pleasure to be writing this today - I've left the ending scenes of LOR 3 and a whole range of Saturday matinee to force my eyes onto a computer screen. Maybe it was my mother's persistent nagging that drove me to my room.
Ever since I told her that I was going to end up being a writer sooner or later, she's been trying to squash my literary dreams. I tried to shut her up with a compilation of my notes. She dismissed them as commonplace and uninteresting, insignificant takes on everyday life that didn't amount to much. I tell her that my daily life is more sensational than the weekly media throw-up.
I crash-landed at home some bleary day in March. As the self-enforced vacation now draws to a end, I must look back at this opportunity to connect with my cynically aesthetic side - those long hours spend loitering in the wet rain, the frequent indulgence to my creative, arty, crafty side, the constant attempts tot understand human nature.
Though my now-relieved parents will insist that I'm the greatest couch potato ever born, I do find time to complete the occasional chores they throw at me – I even find time to indulge my inexplicable, unpredictable, apparently unrewarding cravings – from teaching my maid’s children to bowling to a wall for hours to scribbling over unsuspecting sheets of naked paper. Here’s a thought….
My father’s been trying to force monetary terms and processes into my mind for a long time now. Initially, I was game for it – money’s a sufficient lure. I even ‘worked’ with my dad’s investment agent for a couple of days.
I could not, however, bring myself to return on the 3rd day. Maybe because the work was too easy – too boring – too much of Maths. Maybe because the female colleague that I’d been promised wasn’t too – well – you know – I mean – all right, she was damn ugly.
My ‘employer’ is a good man – he better be – for he’s an agent, a Dalal, who’s paid for handling other people’s money. He was willing to hire me – maybe too willing (he even offered me an a.c. cabin) – for his business requires men of trust and he saw no risk in recruiting a well-off 20 year old – aimless, rich and the son of a thrifty client. ‘Rakh lo!’ To be honest, I was tempted into the money business – all you have to do is keep track of the markets, keep a good relationship with your innocent, trusting clients who have neither the time nor the inclination to keep track of their money. It’s quite interesting, actually and above all, rewarding!
Did I just say ‘interesting’? I remember calling it boring some time back – well, it’s boring if you have to do it day after day – the same stocks and shares ‘rising’ and ‘falling’ – the only difference being the colour and direction of the arrows accompanying them. You can also invest – banks, Post-offices, Mutual funds, PFs, NSCs – lots of tax saving options and stuff – I don’t want to discuss them here – would be an unfair tribute to my former employer – who divides his day between supervising a lazy staff and visiting clients to collect orders, passbooks, signed forms, cheques, cash and stuff (anyway, I’ve been avoiding him ever since I ran out on a promising career in ‘telling others how to multiply their money’ – he appeared disappointed at my immature decision to rather pursue a B.E. – Dhut! Dhut!)
My father wasn’t too disappointed, though – he made sure I kept visiting banks.
There are 2 kinds of banks – big and small. Big = huge buildings, excess of furniture and employees, terms like ‘can I help you’, high tech machinery, central air-conditioning and space – lots of space. Nothing for me there – bast**ds charge you 85 Rs. for an account statement!
The smaller branches of some Govt. banks – now you have something there!
Case study --- the colour of money – tinged with brown.
Location - Bank of India, Ulyan branch.
Observation period – actually, I’ve been going there for years but it’s only for the 5-6 hours I’ve spent there this week that I’ve appreciated its presence in my trivial existence.
No army of smartly dressed security guards to open the door for you – the lone guard stands calmly in a corner, ready to answer any queries you have – he looks kindly at you, not suspecting the poor earthly souls who wander in.
To your – sorry, my left is the manager’s cabin where – um – where is he? Maybe that kind-looking fellow at the back – appears to be busy with a few prospective account holders and a heap of documents that require his signature. I don’t know him.
I doubt if anyone knows me here – and I’ve spent endless hours here – enjoyed most of it too.
I proceed to the 2 counters at the back of the room, further to the right – I make my familiar way past the crowd at the withdrawal counter with some difficulty. Everyone’s too busy to pay me any attention – something I don’t particularly enjoy - they are busy engaging the bank officer. I take my position in the small queue at the DEPOSIT counter. The Bengali officer behind the counter acknowledges my entry with a cool ‘hello’.
He doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry – something I really don’t mind. As he proceeds to examine the currency in his receptive hands, I begin the day’s work…
People around me curse the officer under their breaths as I oblige any harrowed parents who turn up to deposit school fees – my friend (the Bengali?) takes his time to deposit the few hundred that they have to grudgingly offer.
It’s a Saturday – half a workday = double the impatience, double the frustration – now, you don’t want to mess with a Govt. officer! Yet, you also can’t stand in a queue (well, it’s supposed to be that) all day. Especially when the officer takes a few seconds to sip a cup of tea or stretch his limbs.
Meanwhile (as the officer enters into a quick chito-chat with the revered local priest – something about dates and ladoos, offerings and the decline in our religiousness – the cornered man of faith chooses to be diplomatic – “Ishwar sabka bhala kare…”. I asked him if he could tell his boss to give my application a push.) I take a moment to analyse the turbulent crowd.
It’s as varied and diverse as a Mumbai local train rush – only if it could be that united. I see teenagers, nervously clutching the forms in their hands and nearly crushing the bundled noted in their pockets. I try to offer them my help, as kind and as offhand as applicable.
There are older lads, apparently professionals – cheerful, knowledgeable and looking to engage the willing bankizen into conversation - all the time making their adept, shrewd way up the queue. They are the banker’s familiar delight – warm greetings are exchanged along with Mandi rates and the banker’s woes.
There are no girls here – no babes, no behenjis – nothing – justifying the lack of mathematics in their heads. The already frustrated opposite sex is left craving for those rare figures that make sense everywhere.
There are middle-aged women, though – largely unsure of their purpose here – probably preoccupied with preparations for arguments with their lazy husbands back home – who’ve shamelessly cited work as an excuse to put their tender halves to this madness. Not to mention missing re-runs of their favourite shows (it’s a Saturday, remember?)! All that when they can’t differentiate between a cheque-deposit form and a withdrawal slip (some of them can’t even sign with a steady hand!)!
There are also businessmen with their Current Accounts, eager to get back to their shops and with little time to consider their fellow bankizens – I ignore them.
As people around me begin to wriggle through with opportunistic dashes, indifferent shrugs and wails of desperate excuses, I allow myself to be pushed by some, convinced by some – some I pity, much to the resentment of the others behind me – and the others I either ignore or brush aside.
Sometimes, I join in the frustrations of the crowd, voicing their opinions; rarely do I let my spirits lose – I don’t take anyone to take me seriously – with my studious look, natural squeak and emotions too preoccupied to be provoked. I can be tough when I want to but I guess I’m too lazy to pick a fight. So I prefer to play dumb – and I’m pretty good at that.
It doesn’t work on my Bengali (sorry I’ve to subject him to that address but I don’t know his name yet) friend, though – for he takes about 15-20 min. to examine my 500s and 1000s. He doesn’t like the 1000s at all – when he’s done examining them through the light of a lamp, he proceeds to subject the Father of the nation to Ultraviolet Radiation! (I bet he has a bite or two on the sly). Only when the notes satisfy the Government’s genuineness specifications, the bank officer’s expectations and my perspiration(s, made unbearable by the fact that I hadn’t had a bath in – let’s just say ‘some time’) – are they cleared for deposit.
I leave Mr. B. with a smile and more notes to scrutinise.
The rest of the bank isn’t much – interesting, i.e. Some 3-4 officers, sharing 2 computers, a printer and staff to pass around. As they continue to offload files, customer complaints and responsibilities onto the nearest reluctant shoulder available, I leave the bank with a heavy sigh – there are still some DDs to make before I leave for Bangalore.
Someone tells me that the bank will now be open from 8 to 8 – before I can digest that, the clock signals noon with joined hands and I hurry back to my comfortable sofa and T.V. set – more on that another time.
Keep Blogging. Keep Loving. Keep Smiling.
- Lohit Gupta.
P.S. – It took me nearly 44.5 hours to transfer this from my head to my diary to my tedious screen to my blog. How long does it take you people?
Comments